


Previews

by catfacekathryn



Category: NCT (Band), TXT (Korea Band)
Genre: Archangel - Freeform, Broken Wings, Hybrids, NCT Dream - Freeform, Trapped, Witches, X-men - Freeform, stuck in TV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 15:35:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20392039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catfacekathryn/pseuds/catfacekathryn
Summary: A collection of previews and links to my Twitter threads about my wips.





	1. Curses Upon the Innocent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Hybrid/Witch au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Covers](https://twitter.com/sharkhedcatface/status/1165693955373260801?s=19)
> 
> [Informational Thread](https://twitter.com/catfacekathryn/status/1155367252251893761?s=19)

I was cursed in the days when people thought black cats were bad luck. 

A boy started leaving out bowls of food one night. I took the opportunity of free food. I soon came to expect that food would be left out, and I waited on the roof every night. I'd hear the door open, smell the food, and the door would close. I'd jump down and eat my food, and leave. 

I came to love him, as cats do when they're fed daily. I wanted to sit on his lap and purr for him. So I approached him in the morning, quietly meowing and pawing at his back door. He opened the door, smiled, picked me up and took me inside. And he cursed me into silence.

The strange words on his lips surprised me. I watched, wondering what he was doing. As a cat, I had no idea of witches or curses. As a cat, I watched until he fell silent, and I opened my mouth to meow for attention. Nothing came from my mouth. I tried again, and nothing happened. The boy was laughing. He walked over to me, and I watched in confused silence. He opened his mouth and spoke again. 

Before then, I had never understood the language of humans. It just wasn't cat, all their words incomprehensible to me. Two emotions fought in me when I understood his words. Shock and rage. Two emotions I had never felt before. They were such human things to experience, and I had never been human to understand their feelings or words.

"This is amazing, I need to show everyone," the boy had said, sounding proud. It angered me severely, and the shock was quickly overwhelmed by rage. The boy reached a hand out, whether to pet me or grab me I never found out. I batted at his hand and tried to hiss, though nothing came out. I knew my fur was puffed up and my ears were drawn back, and I ran for the front door. It opened just before I reached it, and I wove my way between the legs in the doorway.

Over the next year and a half, I became more human. I thought about things I'd never considered before, like what my name was and how old I was. It took me a while to realize the sight of certain people angered me because they were witches like that boy.

Not everything I felt was bad. I came to like the emotion 'safe'. Old ladies made me feel 'safe'. They would see me as they sat on their porches, and they'd beckon for me to come closer. I'd been hesitant at first, until I felt 'safe' for the first time.

Two years later, I was in a town. An old lady called me towards her, and I went willingly. The feeling of 'safe' was very strong around with this old lady, and I stayed with her. I nearly ran off when she started leaving food for me. But I couldn't smell what I came to recognize as the taint of magic, so I gradually began to accept her gifts. 

I came to love her and consider her my owner. How could I not, when she cared for me so well? She even gave me a collar made of black cloth and white lace. The night she slipped it around my neck was the night I found out that I was a hybrid. 

I was confused when I woke up on the foot of her bed and felt much bigger than I was used to. I sat up and looked down at myself. I looked human, though I could still feel my cat ears and tail. I carefully put my hands in my hair, feeling how soft it was. I brushed my hands over my ears. I put my hand to my throat and felt the lace of the collar under my fingers. 

This was before the days of mirrors. I had to take one of her black bowls and fill it with water from the basin. I looked in it, and saw…myself. A self I wasn't used to, with big, dark eyes, big lips, a sharp nose. My hair was black and silky, my ears nestled in it. I tentatively touched my cheeks, felt the slight squish of supple skin under my fingertips. I dragged my finger down my nose, along the edge of the human ears I had along with the cat ones. 

I poured the water out and dried the bowl with a towel, putting it back where I'd gotten it from. I sat on the floor and moved my fingers, enamored by their movement. I ran my hands over my legs, feeling the sharp edge of a bone just under the skin in my lower leg. I wiggled my toes, something I'd never done before, and watched. Everything was new, and I was enjoying it. 

I was woken by a gentle hand on my cheek. It was my old woman, who made me feel 'safe'. Even now, when I wasn't a cat as I'd always been to her, she looked at me with the same loving eyes. She smiled, her eyes wrinkled up, and I smiled back. She pulled me off the floor and into a soft hug. I hugged her back.

"Are you my little black kitty," she asked when she pulled back, giving me a once over and locking her eyes on the collar. I wasn't able to talk for her, so I nodded. "Then I suppose you'll need clothes." She sat me on a chair by the table and left me there. I played with my fingers while I waited. 

She helped me dress when she came back and sat me on her couch, next to her favourite rocking chair. Usually, I'd sit in her lap with her as she rocked, but I would hurt her if I did that now. She pulled out her thread and started making lace, as she always did in the morning. 

"Do you have a name," she asked softly. I shook my head. She looked at me, pity in her eyes. "Oh, you poor thing. You can't talk, can you?" I shook my head again. "Well, I suppose I'll have to figure out your name, dear. If you'd like to know, I'd say you're about fourteen." I nodded, watching her fingers. Most old ladies I'd met had stiff fingers, but hers were still quick and nimble. 

We sat in silence for a while, as I watched her make lace. I felt my cat ears twitch towards the footsteps outside the door. My head followed soon after. I stared at the door and waited for the knock I knew should be coming. The old lady would get up, and bring the person inside before making tea.

When the old lady stood to answer the door, I walked into the kitchen. There was already a kettle of warm water, which was never cold. I pulled out the cups and little plates she always used. It took a moment to remember where her tea leaves were, but I grabbed the ones I always saw her use. I put them into the cup and poured in the water, trying not to spill any. I picked up the cups carefully and walked back into her sitting room.

She was talking with the person on the couch, who I recognized as the young mother across the street. I stared at the woman for a few moments, because for the first time I realized how similar she looked to my old woman. 

I stepped forward and offered a cup and little plate to the young mother. She accepted it with a smile, and I gave the other cup to my old woman. I sat on the floor as I watched, wondering if I'd done it right. The young mother sipped her tea and smiled. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of her magic. 

"Thank you. This is just how I make it. Have you been spying on me whenever I make tea," my old woman said. I nodded, and she laughed.

"Who is this, Grandma," she asked. 

"The kitty who's always in my feet," my old woman answered, smiling kindly while she sipped her tea.

"I see. Did you kidnap him," the young mother asked. 

"No, of course not. He came into my home from the streets a few months ago. I believe someone put a muting curse on him," my old woman said. I stared at her, wondering if that was what that boy's words were. A 'curse'. 

"That's terrible! Do you know his name," the young mother exclaimed. My old woman shook her head. 

"I'm sure he was a cat before a boy, and he's probably never had a name from any owners. I've been thinking that Taehyun would suit him," my old woman said. They talked for a while more before the young mother left, and I took both teacups. I threw away the leaves and washed out the cups, and sat back on the couch. 

My old woman taught me how to make lace over the next few months. Once I'd learned, we sat and made strings of it for hours, until the sun started setting and we cleaned up. We'd eat dinner, and I'd turn back into a cat, and we'd sleep until morning. 

One morning, she woke me up and sat me on the couch. She said she needed to explain something. She said she was half witch, and she explained hybrids, how they were often replacements for dead familiars. She said she wouldn't live much longer. Her granddaughter was a witch, and they'd been talking about what to do with her house when she died. They'd decided the granddaughter would move in, and I could stay if I liked.

She thought she was going to die soon, but I could feel that she had a few more years, deep in my heart and my bones. I wanted to tell her that, but I couldn't.

After that, we continued as we had been. Making lace, brewing tea, sitting in comfortable silence. Her granddaughter came more often, and talked to me some. I decided that despite smelling of magic, she was okay. I felt more 'safe' with her everytime she came.

She called me 'Tae'. She brought her baby over, and I held it often. She hadn't told me the baby's name, although I did figure out it was a boy. 

"Yejin, have you told him the baby's name," she asked one evening, while we all sat with cups of tea. I was holding the baby. The young mother's eyes widened, and she shook her head.

"I'm sorry, Tae, it slipped my mind. That's Seungcheol. My first son," she said, a proud smile on her face. I nodded, and stroked the baby's soft hair. I became attached to him, and I knew I'd be staying when my old woman was gone.

When my old woman died, I'd only had five years with her. I held her hand gently. I cried silently, my curse muting my sorrow. She died early in the morning while the sky wept, the first and last roll of thunder echoing through the sky as she drew her final breath. I dropped her hand and covered my face with both of mine, sobbing in my perpetual silence. The next morning, I brewed a cup of jasmine tea, and I walked it across the street. I knocked on the door, and when it opened I was looking at the ground. I couldn't bear to look at her.

"Why are you here? I was going to come over later," Yejin said. I held out the cup of tea for her. She stared at it before looking at her grandmother's house. She pushed past me and ran across the street, throwing the door to the house open and running inside. I just stood on her porch, my hands still holding the cup of tea as I listened to her wail.

I felt a hand tugging on my pant leg, and I looked down. It was the little boy. He was five now.

"Why is Mommy crying like that," he asked. I carefully sat down and pulled him into my lap, cup of tea still in my hand. He didn't understand yet that I couldn't talk. I offered him the cup of tea and he nodded, taking little sips. I gently ran a hand through his hair. 

"I like this stuff," the little boy said. I made sure to remember that.

The funeral was a dismal affair. I cried silently as the coffin was lowered into the ground. I was holding the boy in my arms, and he only looked up at me when he felt my shoulders shaking. 

"Why are you crying? Where's Grandma," the little boy asked curiously. I only shook my head and kept crying, hiding my ears in my hair and keeping my tail wrapped around my waist so no one would know. These were the only witches in town, and I'd be damned before I got them run off because of my carelessness. 

The young mother and the little boy moved in. They brought a hawk with them, who was the young mother's familiar. When the little boy grew older, he wondered why he didn't have a familiar. His mother explained that it had run off years ago, and had never returned. He hadn't seemed to care. 

When he worked magic, I watched him. I started to help him, and we got closer. He understood why I couldn't speak now, but it didn't stop him from trying to find ways for me to express my thoughts. He tried and failed to teach me sign language. The only thing I could write was the language of cats. When he was thirty, with an eight year old daughter, he gave me a bracelet. It was made of thin threads of metal, silver and gold and copper. It looked like lace. 

"This should let you project your thoughts into others' minds," he said when he clasped it onto my wrist. I nodded, and watched as the wires wove themselves together. I tried to do what he'd explained. 

"Thank you. It's very pretty," I thought at him. He smiled and nodded. 

"It worked. I did it," he said, his smile both proud and shocked. I smiled back. His daughter came in then, a little chick in her hands. 

"Daddy, look, I found a birdy," his daughter shouted. The bird was staring at the little girl with adoration in its eyes. 

"Are you his daughter's familiar," I thought at the bird. It looked at me in shock, and nodded with a chirp after a moment. His daughter looked at me with a smile. 

"Kitty look! Look at my birdy, isn't he cute," his daughter exclaimed. I nodded ruffled her hair. 

"Soojung, I told you to stop calling him kitty," the grown boy scolded. She giggled and ran off.

Over the centuries it took to reach 2003, I stayed with the family of witches. Their magic grew weaker with every generation. They started living more human life spans. And then the happy boy was the last one left. And he was growing old, and wouldn't find anyone to love aside from me. 

I wore as many gifts as I could, wanting to cherish all of it, putting everything else in a box. I had earrings all over both sets of ears. There were rings of all kinds on every finger, and my right wrist was lost in the mess of bracelets. My left arm was adorned with all sorts of metal lace and braided wire bands. 

It pained me that the happy boy was so stuck on me. He was getting older, and he needed someone human. I was a cat. I'd been with his family for ages, and I'd replaced so many dead familiars I'd lost count. He couldn't love me. 

He talked to me all the time, saying he loved me. I scolded him, asking if he was really just going to let his family end like this. He said it didn't matter, that he wanted me to move on, find someone wouldn't die and leave me to take care of their children. 

He died, and left me to take care of the house my old woman had first lived in, a house that held so many memories and centuries.

I went to his funeral, as I had gone to others so many times before. I cried in silence, the only one there for him. I returned to my home. 

I walked through the house, reliving the memories I could still recall. I brushed my fingers along the arm of an old rocking chair and closed my eyes, remembering days spent sitting in it, making lace, rocking children to sleep. I wondered again what it would be to fall in love, to rock a child of your own into a peaceful slumber and run your fingers through their soft hair, knowing that this was your child. A tear ran down my face as I pulled my hand away. 

I took an ancient teacup out of the cupboard, grabbing the little plate that went with it. I took a few tea leaves and put them in the cup, the same kind I'd always used. I made my favorite tea, something that had taken me decades to figure out. I grabbed the kettle that was always warm, and poured the water into the cup. I stirred it and inhaled the calming scent with a smile. It was my favourite smell in the world. I sipped on my tea as I put the kettle back onto the oven. 

I brushed my fingers over centuries-old lace, sitting on a couch and closing my eyes, letting my memories fill in the silence around me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extremely condensed from what will actually be published once I finish writing this story


	2. The Boy in the Screen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Kris Wu was cursed into some kid's television set

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Covers](https://twitter.com/sharkhedcatface/status/1165693955373260801?s=19)

There's a boy who lives inside my TV set. He has dark hair and eyes, and pale skin. He wears a white shirt with thin black stripes, and sometimes he has a yellow coat on. It's kind of like a raincoat, but it never rains inside my television. 

The first time I saw him was on accident. I'd been flipping through the channels, like my parents did with their TV, and I hit the input button by accident. I panicked when it flipped screens of course, and pushed buttons trying to get it back to the channels I'd been on. I'd never pushed the input button before, so I hadn't known to press that. Instead, I pressed number buttons first, entering '396' into the TV. 

I'd gone to press another number when the screen went black. I stared at it in shock, wondering whether my parents would get angry at me or not. I was hoping for 'not' but betting on 'angry'. Then, the screen got lighter, going grey with static that buzzed on the screen and in my ears. 

I watched, enamored by the lack of color in the usually bright screen, as blips went through the ever-lightening static. There was a patch lighter than the rest, and it fizzled out into the image of a person. Color burst into the screen in the blink of an eye, and I saw his coat was yellow, his hair was dark brown and his eyes were nearly black. His lips, anxiety-bitten and chapped, were pale pink, almost colorless. His fingernails were chewed down as far as they could be, and even past that on a few that bled bright red, pixelated and unclear. His eyebrows were furrowed, his forehead wrinkled in worry.

I dropped the remote in my hand, and it clattered loudly to the floor. The boy in the screen looked up, fear in his eyes, and he dropped his fingers from his mouth and screamed. Static filled the air, and suddenly my channels were back on, colors lighting up the screen with all traces of static gone.

I tried it again the next afternoon, while my parents were gone to work. I was alone in my attic room, the ac keeping the heat of summer at bay. The screen lit up, still on the usual channels, when I clicked the power button on the TV. I grabbed the remote and bit my lip as I pressed 'input', letting it go where it would. Panic ensued when I tried to remember what buttons I'd clicked afterwards. Guessing and very much doubting my terrible memory, I entered '396' into the remote; and to my delight, the screen went black, and then filled up with static that slowly got lighter and lighter until it resolved into a very stressed boy with dark eyes.

I scooted closer to the screen and stared up at it, an amazed smile plastered to my lips. I didn't drop the remote this time, so the boy didn't turn to notice me and scream. His back was facing me, and from what I could see of his jaw, he was talking. I wasn't sure if it was to himself or to someone else.

His entire demeanor showed how uncomfortable and tense he was. I could see both in the clenching of his jaw when he wasn't speaking and in the taut lines of his throat. He started running a hand through his hair, and the other soon joined the first. His hands fisted in his hair, unclenched and tightened again. The boy started pacing, and I could only watch as he wrapped his arms around himself. When he started pacing back towards me, I could see his face; what I saw hurt.

His eyes were puffy, or looked like they were in the slight static that ran across the screen. Tear tracks glimmered on his cheeks, and another rolled down them as I stared at him. He was talking again, his brows furrowed harshly, and he winced suddenly, stopping in his tracks. A hand went up to hold his temple, and he looked up. He saw me. His face went slack, and his hand dropped, and he stared.

I bit my lip and waved, just a little. I was nervous, because what if he was angry at me for watching him? He turned his face to the ground and rubbed at his cheeks with the sleeves of the yellow coat that hung off his narrow shoulders. He licked his lips and ruffled his hair, still staring at the ground. The boy looked up at me, just a little, hardly more than peaking at me from beneath the fringe of his hair. When he saw that I was still there, he bit his lip and straightened up. 

And the boy in my TV waved, and I smiled at him, and again the screen went black. 

I'd been disappointed when it turned itself back to normal channels, and I couldn't get the TV back to the screen with the boy on it no matter how hard I tried. So I'd flopped down on my bed and stared at the ceiling once I turned off the TV, wondering what time it was but too lazy to check the alarm clock on the bedside table. 

It turned out to be dinner time, which I learned when my parents called me down for dinner a few minutes later. I trudged down the stairs, still unsatisfied with today's endeavours and wondering just how long I'd watched that boy. I was sure it hadn't been more than half an hour. 

We ended up having mac and cheese and hamburgers, and my parents asked what I did today. I told them I just watched TV like usual, figuring there was no way they'd believe me if I told them I waved at a boy in my TV screen. As usual, they sighed and gave me a disappointed look, but didn't say anything more.

When I went to sleep that night, my thoughts were full of questions about the boy. Why was he in my TV screen, and how long had he been there before I found out about him? Why was he so anxious? What was he saying, and why had he been crying? 

What was his name?

It was another week before I could get back to his channel. I'd done everything the exact same way, but it hadn't worked until the next Tuesday came around. I'd tried it more as a part of routine than as a thing I thought would work, so my attention snapped to the screen when I heard the static.

I threw the remote on my bed and focused solely on the screen. I rejoiced when the image fizzled into view, the boy staring at the screen looking very lost. My first instinct was to wave, and my second was to say something. In the space of a few seconds, my mind ran through all the things I could say. I could ask him for the answers to the countless questions I had about him, but that seemed extremely rude. There was the option of asking how he was doing, but the answer was probably not a good one. I could say hi.

"Hello."

He stared at me, and I wondered if this worked both ways. If neither of us could hear the other. I waved and he waved back, so I was reassured that he could at least see me. I leaned closer to the TV, putting a hand over the speaker to steady myself.

"Hello? Can you hear me?"

The boy's eyes widened and he nodded. I gasped, and felt my eyes getting bigger as well.

"Seriously? You can actually hear me?"

He nodded again, more vigorously this time, and I smiled triumphantly. 

"Can you…do you talk?"

It was a stupid question. I'd seen him talking to himself before, though I supposed I never actually heard him. 

"Uhm, yes. I…talk." 

His voice wavered, and it was quiet and uncertain. But it was a voice, and I could hear it. I could hear the boy in my TV. 

"Hello."

I'd already said it, but suddenly my mind was blank, and I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"You…already said that."

"Ah yeah, I did. I just, I couldn't think of anything else so… I'm sorry, I'm not very much fun to talk to, am I?"

He frowned a bit and shook his head.

"Oh no, not really. Most of the times I've seen you, you've scared me. I was never…good at talking, even before I ended up here."

It was confusing to talk with him. His voice was flat and sounded uninterested, but his eyes were bright for once. He was a bunch of contrasts all jumbled up in one, and it puzzled me. 

"I don't talk to many people, so I suppose I'm not much good with words either. But, I think conversations with new people usually include someone asking for names. So, do you have one?"

"I…do. It's not one I'd rather share, though."

I didn't like his answer, but I wasn't going to push it. He didn't need anymore stress than he had.

"That's okay. You don't need to tell me your name if you would rather not. My mom always said not to tell my name to strangers anyways."

"Am I…a stranger to you?"

He was frowning, and he sounded just a little sad. I shook my head quickly.

"No, not really. I mean, I've seen you more than once, it's just that we've never talked! So, you're kind of a stranger to me, but not a complete stranger. Afterall, how can the boy in my TV be a stranger?"

He was still frowning, but he looked less sad.

"I'm in...your TV? Is that where I am?"

He sounded very confused. I nodded.

"Yes! You're in my TV screen, with lots of static. But it's mostly color static."

"I've been wondering…what the buzzing was."

He didn't say anything after that, and I didn't either because he looked like he was thinking. His brows were furrowed, but not in a worried kind of way. It was a better way. He looked back up at me, and I wondered what he'd say.

"I suppose-"

The TV screen went black.

I talked with the boy every chance I could get, hand over the speaker of my TV and mouth working to talk with him as much as I could before our time was up. I never ended up telling him my name, because he never asked, but he let me call him 'Es'.

Months passed by in a flash and turned into years. I went through middle school and high school, always coming back home to talk to the boy in my TV screen. I didn't get to talk to him every day, because it didn't work every day and I still hadn't figured out why. Those days I couldn't talk to him made the ones I could all the better. It felt hollow without his unclear voice in my ears.

I noticed eventually, that while I grew older, he never changed. He stayed the same size, his cheeks just as round and his eyes just as big. His hair didn't grow, and his fingernails didn't either; not that I ever noticed. His lips never healed over, and the too-bitten ends of his fingers never completely stopped bleeding. 

I was closer to him than I'd ever been to anyone, but I barely knew anything about him.

"Es? What am I to you?"

He'd said that he didn't know at the time, and that he'd think about it. I trusted him, perhaps more than I should have. I let it go, and said it was okay. Afterall, he could just tell me whenever we next talked. 

I never made it back to his channel after I turned the TV off that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ends differently than it will if I expand upon it


	3. Broken Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An NCT Dream/X-Men au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has some somewhat graphic depictions of gore(?) and health issues.
> 
> [Covers](https://twitter.com/sharkhedcatface/status/1165693955373260801?s=19)

My back started itching when I was thirteen, right in between my shoulder blades. It wasn't too bad, and though it wouldn't go away no matter how hard I scratched, I became used to it and it became bearable. I didn't think about it much, mostly just ignoring the minor itch and living as I had been before I noticed it was there. 

As time went by, weeks blurring into months, it got more noticeable. It was still tolerable though, and I didn't think much of it considering what was going on in my life.

My mother was sick. My father had left, and my mother was sick, and we couldn't pay the hospital bills any longer so she was laying on her bed, burning up with a fever. Our trailer was in the middle of nowhere; I wasn't sure if any of our neighbors even knew my mother was sick. I'd been helping anyone I could with chores, trying to earn some money for more medicine. It wasn't going as well as I'd like; I couldn't afford the medicine she needed. She was getting worse.

I stopped going to school because she needed someone to take care of her. I needed to be there for her more than I needed to be in school. She was going down the drain faster than I could put in the plug, and my back was getting worse every month. 

Summer rolled in, my birthday following soon after. I turned fourteen, and my mother turned into something I didn't recognize. Nothing more than a sleeping body, unable to care for me as she once had. She could no longer cook macaroni and hotdogs for dinner on Fridays, or tuck me into bed with a soft song and a kiss on my forehead. She wasn't able to ask me about my day or help me cut my hair. She could no longer be my mother. 

I hadn't really noticed the world getting duller as the months passed. I hadn't noticed that the colors seemed less bright everyday my mother was sick, just like I didn't notice the itch in my back getting worse until I thought about it. July 4th was what made me realize how muted everything was. I remembered last year, watching the colors scatter across the sky from the front porch with my mother; she hadn't been quite so sick then. 

Now, sitting by my mother's bed, I could hear the explosions and crackles of fireworks. I glanced up from her face, wrinkled and exhausted. She didn't look peaceful in her fevered sleep. I looked out the window behind her bed, and I saw another firework burst in the sky. I stood up when I realized that it looked wrong somehow. 

I let go of her frail hand and walked out onto the front porch, staring at the sky, waiting for another one. When it went off, I looked at the colors. They were dark, nearly grey. I knew most of them were red, blue, gold, green, like they always were. But all I could see were shades of barely tinted grey. It was like the sky was full of explosions that scattered ash. I hated it.

I ignored the tears streaming down my face and stumbled back into her room, standing in the doorway in confusion at what I saw. My mother had her eyes open, staring at the ceiling. She turned her eyes to me when she heard my breathing, growing increasingly ragged. She beckoned me closer, and my legs moved on their own as I listened to her cough.

"My son…you've become so pale. What's happened…to my chubby-cheeked baby?"

Her voice was thin and strained, and it wavered with every word. It sounded hard for her to talk. The pain I could hear in her voice made me cry more, my shoulders starting to shake.

"I-it's nothing, mom. I'm fine, but you aren't. You're sick, and you need medicine. I don't need as much food as I used to. Don't worry about me, mom, focus on getting better," I said. I was trying to hide the pain I felt because of her sickness. I don't think it worked. Her eyes closed and her face creased with worry.

"Oh, my son, I'm not…I won't get better. I'm dying…and I wanted to tell you to take care of yourself. Do well in school, for me. Don't be scared of what's coming, my sunshine. You may think at times that you aren't strong enough to handle it, but…I know that you are…. Don't miss me too much," she said, her voice becoming quieter and quieter until I could barely hear her. I didn't quite understand what she meant, but my mind latched onto the first thing she said.

I had just opened my mouth to tell her that she was wrong, that she was going to get better, but I stopped short when I saw her. She was glowing red, her skin looking thinner and more translucent by the second. I blinked, and suddenly she was crumbling into a pile of ash. I sat there in stunned silence and watched as my sick mother disintegrated, bones and all. My emotions swirled through me, colliding into one another and building upon each other until they finally manifested themselves.

It came out as one long, drawn-out, anguished scream, with layers of rage and pain and melancholy. I covered my mouth and backed away from the bed, tripping over the leg of her bed and falling down onto the floor. When my back made contact with the hardwood, pain flooded through me and I let out a choked sob. I scrambled backwards on the floor until I finally turned over and crawled into the hallway on my hands and knees. I closed her door and leaned against the wall, sobbing at the pain in my back and my heart.

The rest of summer streamed past my eyes, and I barely batted an eye at it. It was all one mess of grief and hunger. I worked for the neighbors still, buying what I could eat without cooking. I was glad we had a well, so I could still wash when I needed to. 

When school rolled around, I went because my mother had asked me to do well. We were on free breakfast and lunches, though I had to repeat the last school year because I'd missed so much I failed at the end. I didn't talk to anyone, not my old friends or teachers. If they asked me for an answer, I'd ignore them and keep working on the assignment in front of me. New kids would try to talk to me, and I'd ignore them; old kids would ask why I'd stopped coming to school last year, and I ignored them; old friends asked how my mother was doing and why was I so thin, and I ignored them the most. I couldn't bare to give them the answers they wanted, and we drifted apart.

As the year progressed, I stayed the same size even though I was eating more. I got sick from eating too much at first, but I got over it. My back had moved on from itching to throbbing, in two vertical lines on the inner edges of my shoulder blades. About halfway through the year, kids would ask why my back was bruised in gym. I shrugged and ignored them, going home every day to look at the dark patches on my back. They were blotchy, confusing mosaics of painful colors, the first I'd seen in a while that hadn't looked dull. The bruises were black and blue near the middle, getting more purple and yellow and brown closer to the edges. 

The bruises began to hurt when I touched them, and my clumsiness wasn't doing me any favors. Everytime I tripped over something, be it my feet or a chair, I fell, and everytime I fell a wave of pain shot through my body, pooling up in my bruises and staying there. 

I couldn't ignore the constant pain in my back like I'd ignored it when it was just a constant itch. I couldn't just go home and sit on the couch, pretending everything was okay as I sat there and stared at the lifeless TV in the dark. Showers became a curse and a blessing, because the warm water soothed my pain while brushing against anything even by accident sent hurt straight to my back. I slipped at least once every shower, and laid in the bottom of the tub crying for at least ten minutes every time.

My life had become one giant, agonizing mess, and I lost track of what day it was. Everything was blurring together again, and I didn't notice that school had ended until I went out for the bus one morning and stood there, waiting until it was noon and I was sunburned. 

I stayed inside after that, keeping all the doors locked and ignoring everything else but the incessant pain in my back. I ignored the honking of horns outside and the knocking on my door. I ignored the voices of old friends and their parents yelling at me to let them in, instead choosing to sit in front of the mirror.

I'd sit on the counter in the bathroom, take off my shirt if I wasn't already topless, and I'd turn my head and stare at the mess on my back. The bruises were impossibly dark, and they'd spread further by the time bone tore its way through my skin. Just two white spurs sticking out of my back, at the top of the darkest part of the bruise. Crimson lines of dried blood marked my skin, all the way down to my pant-line, where the blood pooled and dried into the grey fabric of my sweatpants. 

I bled more every day, as the bones grew longer and thicker. The dark lines were broken only by cracks, caused when I walked or turned to look in the mirror. Dried bits of blood would flake off, only to be replaced by fresh blood whenever I scraped against something or fell. 

I knew it wasn't healthy for me to be like this. I knew I was too thin, my cheeks too sunken and my limbs reduced to little more than skin and bone. I knew I needed to eat more, and stop lighting candles when it got too dark, just so I could keep staring at myself as I bled and bruised. I knew I needed to stop watching myself, but I couldn't. 

A week before my birthday, I suddenly passed out. My dreams filled themselves with fantasies of flying, the shadows of my pain echoing onto my back. I couldn't wake myself up, no matter how much I wanted to. It hurt so much, being trapped in these beautiful dreams where I felt only a fraction of my pain. 

And when I finally woke up, I somehow just knew that it was June 6th. I woke up screaming, sitting on the counter in front of the mirror. I knew I should be starving, but I'd gone back to not eating much once summer started. The only thing I could focus on was the overwhelming pain in my back, worse than anything I'd been feeling the past year. I stared at myself in the mirror, and somehow the first thing I noticed was my face. My eyes had gone grey and gold, glowing in the darkness, just barely visible through the overgrown fringe of hair over my eyes. My hair had gone steel-grey, and it hung over my face limply, in waves and oily curls. My cheeks were sunken, and my cheekbones looked more pronounced than they ever had. My jawline was too sharp; everything about me was.

And then I noticed what I'd been noticing since kids asked why my back was bruised. My entire back was covered in the varying colors I'd come to know were bruises. The darkest area was right across my shoulder blades, as it always had been; it was almost like there'd been too much bruising for one spot, so it was divided up among the rest of my skin. 

And then, there was the main attraction. The spurs of bone had developed into so much more. They were longer now, so, so much longer, and were covered in all the muscle the rest of my body lacked. Feathers covered the bones now, steel-grey with silver highlights I barely noticed in the dark. The ends of the feathers were covered with blood, wet and dry alike. Droplets of crimson fell to the countertop as I stared, momentarily enamored. I could hear the impact of each one. 

I realized after a few moments that they were wings. The itch on my back, the bruise, all the pain; it had been these great, grey wings, pushing their way slowly but surely through my skin over the course of two years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very condensed from what I actually have in planning to post once it's finished


End file.
